


The Lost Tidings of an Unstable Mind

by Kuro-tan (dSuzuha)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mental Instability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 19:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6021555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dSuzuha/pseuds/Kuro-tan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I will tell you the story of my other half, but only if you wish to hear it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lost Tidings of an Unstable Mind

She remembers her mother whispering sweet, soft words into her ear at inopportune moments. There is never anything said without intent, not a single word of compliment said without a 'but' accompanied at the end, not a tender touch ghosting over her skin without purpose. This time, she is young  _(eight, nine, ten, it doesn't matter because the years have blurred together and she has always been missing chunks of memory)_ when her mother leans forward and whispers, as if telling her a secret.

"Never have a best friend," her mother says. "Good friends, yes. But never a best friend. Never place one person above the others, for it will only cause you grief in the end."

Those are words she takes to heart. It is her mantra, the echo that reverberates in her soul. Even among the missing pieces of memory and the time she has lost to it, it is the one thing she remembers.

* * *

 

She is not well liked by her classmates, and for good reason. She is awkward, plain and dull but never truly blending in at the same time. She is stuck on the precipice of uninteresting and strange, not normal enough to fly under the radar but standing out enough for people to notice the inherent flaws in her being.

Sitting at her table, watching the others gather in little circles of their own, she wonders if she could ever be a part of that. She knows she is different, not always in a good way, but she cannot pinpoint exactly what is different about her. No one tells her, and she is left to guess.

Isolation never bothered her. What bothered her was not being able to see herself. She looks in the mirror and sees herself, but she cannot see beyond that. Who is she? For what purpose was she born? No one tells her, so she hazards a guess herself.

Humans are born to live, but she does not feel the urge to enjoy life. If she was on the verge of death, she would not feel the urge to pull herself out of it. That is not normal, she knows, but she cannot help who she is.

In the end, it all boils down to being different from everyone else.

* * *

 

She uses that difference to her advantage.

The national examinations has ended, and there are months yet before school starts. Most people take a job to earn some cash, but she is different. She always has been.

She stands in front of the full length mirror and inhales. Her limbs are wiry, disgustingly so, and her cheekbones are hollow. She fills in all the right places, but her features something she cannot change, at least, not yet. She is not attractive, and she knows it.

It does not matter. There are ways to fit in in spite of her appearance. She twists her lips into a crooked smile and looks into her reflection. The closed mouth smile does not reach her eyes, her limbs are stiff and unyielding and it makes her look more than different. It makes her look like a broken plastic doll, the kind that stares into your eyes and looks as if it can see through all your secrets. She can, but she does not want to show it. She has to look harmless, weak, make herself as unthreatening as possible to anyone who may truly see her for who she is.

She ignores her concerned mother, who has taken to whispering on the phone about her wayward daughter. The daughter who has finally lost her mind, her beloved child who she just wants to save from herself. It matters not. By the time she enters her new school, no one will think that way.

She copies a girl in her old class, Girl A. Girl A was popular even among her circle of friends and friendly even to those who were not part of it. She wants to be like Girl A, but Girl A is a dancer and she is not so she settles for the pictures she paints with words instead.

Eventually, she gets it. The subtle shift in her body weight, the slight cock of her head, the concerned furrow of her eyebrows, everything to make her appear normal. Not that she will ever be, but just pretending makes even her believe that one day, she will escape the madness.

At her favourite restaurant, she grins at the usual waitress. "You know my usual order," she says cheekily.

"You're more friendly now," the waitress remarks, scribbling her order on a piece of paper.

"Ah, I've just grown more comfortable talking to you," she says. The waitress nods and moves on.

* * *

 

At her new school, she only knows one person, and only in passing. That person is Girl B.

Girl B is pretty, not excessively skinny but compounded with lean muscle instead, healthy body and face and everything that she wants but was not born with. She is not jealous, however, because she has something that Girl B does not. Intelligence, wit, cunning. A keen eye for detail and a ruthlessness to use it against anyone, though with the personality she crafted for herself she supposed she could not do it openly.

She invites Girl B for lunch before school starts via Facebook. They talk about their old school, mutual friends she only knows in passing but observes enough to know more than she should. They eat lunch together, partaking in shared experiences and making jokes of old times. Even though she does not know Girl B, she feels as if she is one step closer to understanding and becoming friends.

It scares her. When school reopens and she enters her class, people are immediately drawn to her. She thinks back to not even a few months ago when no one would talk to her and her insides clench. It is amazing how much the slight tilt of her voice and body language can sway people, and she wonders if she has ever been taken by someone like that before.

Since Girl B has yet to arrive, Girl C she spots her before anyone else. Girl C is desperate for someone to be friends with her, someone who will earn her a decent social standing in school so that she will not be cast aside. She does not pull up a chair beside Girl C, rather seating herself diagonally behind her and chiding Girl B for coming late and not being able to claim a seat beside her. She talks to the people beside her, making sure to talk about herself but ask questions about the other two in greater depth.

It does not take long for Girl C to turn around and join them in their conversation. She smirks to herself and ducks her head. People were so easy to manipulate, and she wonders why she did not do it sooner.

* * *

 

 

Guy D is just like her, but without the cracks and madness and everything that comes with it.

He is perfection, not so much in appearances but in the way he acts. His grades are the top of the class. He works out, gaining a muscle tone that is pleasing to the eye. He draws people to him naturally, but not in the way she does. He is kind, generous, and that irks her more than she would like to admit because although she tries, she can never truly be.

She is cracked glass that has not quite shattered, leaving a cobweb of cracks forever etched in its surface. Beyond those cracks she is transparent, people know she is there and avoid bumping into her but never truly seeing her. People do not see her and like her for who she is, they are instead fascinated by the twists and turns of the lines that run along the edge, dyed different colours because she can and she will. Those colours eventually mix and turn black, and on those days she breaks the entire glass, cleans the dye off and puts each sharp-edged shard back together again. It is a routine she gets used to soon enough.

No one gets close to her because she does not allow it. If you touch her, one of the tiny pieces of glass will lodge into your skin and make you bleed, and since it is so very minuscule you never know what is wrong. The skin grows over the wound and that piece is forever trapped in your fingertip. Tapping the site where she has penetrated your defences only brings you pain, but because you never know what cut you, you never know why.

Do not be mistaken, she does not care. If the piece of her is lodged inside, she will not take measures to cut it out and release you from your pain. She loses pieces of herself often enough, so missing another one is no big deal to her.

* * *

 

 

I am not that girl. I am...  _different._

It is hard to explain. I am the author of this story. The girl, too, is an author. She is, however, not the author of her own story. Though unknowingly, she leaves that role to me.

We all have different roles, a different place in her life. I have deemed the rest unnecessary and cast them aside. I have taken on their roles because I am the only one she needs. She is my other half, just as I am hers.

Take this as you will. I am many things, but I am not a liar.


End file.
